Honed Blade of Ice
| Type | Weapon |
|---|---|
| Discovered By | Jonas |
| Discovery Date | 2024-08-16 |
| Discovery Location | Mokut, Beluaterra |
| Abilities | Prestige +6 |
| Current Owner | Jonas |
Description
The Honed Blade of Ice is a weapon of breathtaking, otherworldly beauty—an ancient relic forged from magic rather than steel. The blade itself is translucent, resembling a shard of frozen crystal, yet it gleams with a sharpness that seems impossible for something made of ice. At full length, the sword is nearly four feet long, its blade tapering to a wickedly precise point. Despite its icy appearance, the sword feels perfectly balanced in the hand, lighter than any conventional weapon of its size but still carrying a palpable weight of power.
The blade’s surface appears to shift and shimmer with a subtle inner light, as though it contains the essence of a frozen storm. Tiny fractals of frost spiral and twist along the edges, growing and shrinking as if the sword were alive, pulsing with cold energy. In moments of stillness, the ice seems smooth and polished, but when the blade is swung, fine cracks appear along its length, mending themselves almost instantly as if the sword is healing from within.
The hilt is an elegant contrast to the stark ferocity of the blade. Made from a strange metal that glistens like silver but feels colder to the touch, it is adorned with intricate engravings—delicate patterns of swirling winds and snowflakes. These etchings catch the light and reflect a soft, ethereal glow, giving the impression that the sword is constantly exuding a faint aura of frost. The crossguard is slender but sturdy, its design resembling two jagged icicles curving downward, as though the sword itself was plucked from a glacier and shaped into a weapon by ancient hands.
The grip is wrapped in pale leather that feels supple but cool to the touch, with faint traces of frost lining the edges where it meets the pommel and crossguard. The leather is engraved with faint, almost unreadable runes—an old and forgotten language, etched in symbols that suggest the sword's power is bound to something far older than the kingdoms of men. The pommel is shaped like a crystal of ice, faceted and gleaming, with a single blue gem embedded at its center, glowing faintly like the heart of a frozen flame.
When unsheathed, the air around the blade cools noticeably, the temperature dropping a few degrees in its presence. When swung, it leaves trails of cold mist in its wake, and after each strike, frost clings to whatever the blade touches. The Honed Blade of Ice is not just a weapon; it is a force of nature, a shard of the ancient cold given shape, power, and purpose.
History of Owners
Jonas (Adventurer - Nothoi) - August, 2024 - Present
Tale of Discovery
Jonas was no stranger to danger, nor to the thrill of facing it head-on. He wasn’t some peasant with mud on his boots and a prayer on his lips, begging the gods for another season of good harvest. That life was never for him. He’d seen enough men like that die with broken dreams and broken bodies, left to rot in their fields. No, Jonas had chosen a different path. The life of adventure—fame, fortune, and the thrill of battle. And maybe, if the gods willed it, something more: his name remembered, his deeds spoken of in taverns and halls across the land.
The undead had returned to the Mokut region of Nothoi, as they often did. They crawled up from their graves, born of some dark curse that no one had ever bothered to understand. What mattered was that they needed to be stopped, again and again, before their numbers swelled into a horde that would require armies to quell. Jonas knew this, and so did every other sword-for-hire with a taste for coin. But few had the stomach to actually face the dead, to smell their rot and hear their bones creak in the night. Jonas had that stomach—and he had the hunger for more.
The rumors of the dead stirring near the old forest ruins had reached him in one of Mokut's seediest taverns, a place where the ale was watered down, and the men were always looking for an edge in their next fight. The tales had been told with hushed voices and nervous glances over shoulders, the kind of talk that made Jonas's blood run hot with anticipation. If the rumors were true, there was an undead champion leading the horde this time—a knight of ancient times, cursed to wander in death as it had in life. Champions like that didn't rise for no reason. They rose because something powerful called them back, and powerful things were often worth a fortune.
So, Jonas went to the forest, alone. He preferred it that way. No need to split the reward or share the glory. The night was colder than it should have been, the air biting and still. He could feel the presence of death long before he saw them. The forest was thick, the trees gnarled and ancient, their roots twisting through the earth like grasping fingers. The moonlight filtered through the branches, casting long shadows over the underbrush. Jonas moved carefully, his sword drawn, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement.
And then he saw them.
A small horde of the dead shuffled through the clearing ahead—perhaps a dozen in all. Their rotting flesh clung to bones, their empty eyes glowing with a faint, sickly light. They dragged rusted weapons behind them, their movements slow but relentless. But it was the figure at the head of the group that caught Jonas's eye. The champion.
It was taller than the others, clad in ancient armor that had once been magnificent but was now corroded and blackened with age. Its helm covered its face, but the faint blue glow in its eyes betrayed whatever unholy force animated it. In its hands, it held a massive sword, the blade pitted and dull, yet somehow still dangerous.
Jonas watched them for a moment, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. This was it. The moment he lived for. The fight that could make him. The stories that would be told after this would be worth more than all the gold he could carry. And if he could find whatever had drawn the champion back to the world of the living? That was a prize worth risking his neck for.
He stepped into the clearing, his sword ready. The dead turned toward him, their movements jerky and unnatural, but the champion did not falter. It raised its sword in a silent challenge, and the horde began to close in around Jonas.
Jonas wasted no time. He wasn’t one for grand speeches or noble oaths. He was here to kill and to survive. The first undead lunged at him with a rusted axe, its jaw hanging slack. Jonas sidestepped the clumsy blow and drove his sword through the creature’s chest, the brittle bones cracking under the force of his strike. He pulled his blade free, spinning to parry the next attack, the clang of steel ringing out in the night.
He fought with precision, each strike aimed to cripple or kill. The dead weren’t fast, but they were relentless, and they did not tire. But Jonas had something they didn’t: the will to live and the skill to fight. He cut through them one by one, his sword flashing in the moonlight, until only the champion remained.
The knight moved with more grace than its companions, its ancient armor clanking as it advanced. Jonas could feel the weight of its presence, the cold aura of death that clung to it like a shadow. He knew this wouldn’t be an easy fight, but that only made him want it more.
The champion struck first, its massive sword cleaving through the air with surprising speed. Jonas barely dodged the blow, rolling to the side and coming up on one knee, his own sword ready. The champion turned toward him, its glowing eyes locking onto his.
“Come on, then,” Jonas muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on his sword. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The knight charged, its sword swinging in wide arcs, each strike powerful enough to split a man in two. Jonas dodged and parried as best he could, but the force of the blows drove him back, his arms aching from the effort. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. He needed to end it, and soon.
As he dodged another strike, Jonas caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. Near the edge of the clearing, half-buried beneath the roots of an ancient tree, was a glint of blue light. It was faint, almost imperceptible in the darkness, but there was something about it that called to him. Something cold and powerful.
With a quick glance toward the champion, Jonas made a split-second decision. He broke away from the fight, dashing toward the light. The knight roared in fury, its sword smashing into the ground where Jonas had stood just moments before.
Jonas reached the tree and dropped to his knees, his hands closing around the hilt of a sword buried deep in the frozen earth. The blade was made of pure ice, its edges sharp and gleaming, and though it should have been freezing to the touch, Jonas felt nothing but power in his grip. He yanked the sword free, the frost clinging to its edges seeming to shimmer with life.
The champion came at him again, its sword raised for a killing blow. But Jonas was ready. He met the knight’s strike with the Honed Blade of Ice, the two swords clashing with a sound like ice cracking. The cold power of the blade surged through Jonas, and with a swift motion, he drove the ice blade through the champion’s chest.
Frost spread across the knight’s armor, freezing it solid. The champion let out one final, tortured scream before it crumbled into a pile of frozen bones and shattered steel.
Jonas stood there, breathing heavily, his heart racing. He looked down at the Honed Blade of Ice in his hand, the glow of the blade reflecting in his eyes. He knew he had found something far more valuable than gold tonight. This sword—this power—would make him more than just an adventurer. It would make him a legend.
And legends, after all, were what Jonas had always craved.